


twitterpating

by DeHeerKonijn



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon Era, M/M, Mud, Semi-Public Sex, so much of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:15:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27673909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeHeerKonijn/pseuds/DeHeerKonijn
Summary: Gimli laughs at him as he tugs on his boots, looking so rumpled and beautiful as he does. He is picking at a knot in the laces, seated upon the storage chest at the foot of the bed that holds so many of his memories.“Leave it to an elf –– most dwarves feel this way about the first snow of the season, you know.” Gimli says around a yawn.He is so beautiful.He issobeautiful.
Relationships: Gimli (Son of Glóin)/Legolas Greenleaf
Comments: 14
Kudos: 195
Collections: You haven’t lived if you haven’t read this





	twitterpating

**Author's Note:**

> I had an idea for a third entry to Gigolas Fuckfest 2020... but ended up not liking it very much, so it’s sitting quietly in fic-fermenting-limbo.  
> Then [ Roselightfairy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roselightfairy/pseuds/Roselightfairy) attempted to drag me with the below image like “haha this is you” and I was like, well you’re not wrong (because I'm undraggable when it comes to fandom porn), but also that would make a fun replacement Fuckfest fic.
> 
> But _then_ I was like, err it feels a little late to call it an official submission. So here it is anyway.
> 
> .... All of that is to say that I hate this time of year, so it evolved into how wacky nice weather after winter feels. Enjoy this meme that has very little to do with the messy proceedings:
> 
>   
> 

♦︎

The training grounds of Erebor are slick and dark with mud. They will be treacherous later, when Mamlok works his students with a wry smile, but for now they are as silent as the sweet rain that passed through the night, leaving behind only the fresh tang of springtime. The walls around the eastward grounds are high monoliths of slate, and an observation deck that winds around the perimeter blocks a warrior’s gaze to the hills and beyond, and yet up in Gimli’s quarters Legolas does not need even his keen eyesight to know –– to feel it –– the land is stirring. 

It is so early that the sun has only just touched her golden hand to the horizon, and still Legolas is drawn from his waking dreams, pulled from beneath the covers of the bed of Gimli’s youth, begging Gimli to do the same as he simply must –– he _must_ –– he must go out into that chilled, fresh, _green_ air or else all his bubbling energy will distill, and the most essential parts of Legolas will become vapor, become wind, he will leave his husband behind to swirl among that soft dampness that hangs in the air of their quiet morning.

Everything is _alive_ again.

Gimli laughs at him as he tugs on his boots, looking so rumpled and beautiful as he does. He is picking at a knot in the laces, seated upon the storage chest at the foot of the bed that holds so many of his memories.

“Leave it to an elf –– most dwarves feel this way about the first snow of the season, you know.” Gimli says around a yawn.

He is so beautiful.  
He is _so_ beautiful. 

The shift of his stout weight as he ties his laces, the way his copper curls fall into his face. The way he ties back those same curls into a messy bun, functional for the early hour. The way the single candle in the room softens his handsome features, his proud nose, his cheeks that go round when he smiles –– and he smiles so often. 

Legolas breathes deeply the fresh air where he himself is perched on the sill of the room’s small window, intoxicated, dizzy, watching with a thrill for the way Gimli’s biceps quiver as he dresses.

“Perhaps. I am sure many elves do as well,” Legolas says. “But nothing compares to this, Gimli, doesn’t it make you want to -– to run? To dance?”

Gimli does not answer, but chuckles at him again, eyes sparkling.

As a compromise for his husband’s indulgence, Legolas does somehow manage not to shoot out the door before Gimli has had a breakfast of a simple egg and side of sausage. Legolas even prepares his kafe for him, though when he passes it over Gimli makes a teasing remark about trying to hurry a sleepy dwarf along. The corners of his eyes crinkle when he does. Legolas covers Gimli’s hands around the stoneware, leans in to kiss him, emotion too big and bright for words.

He waits patiently as Gimli eats, watching him closely through their easy conversation, carried on in hushed tones so as not to wake up Gimli’s parents whose door is just down the hall. The very moment the sausage has sopped up the last of the yolk, Legolas pulls Gimli to his feet. 

“Legolas, the dish ––” Gimli makes a half-hearted complaint about leaving it behind, but his hand is so big and so warm in Legolas’ that the elf only hears him as if from another room. And anyway, he comes along easily enough.

The corridor that leads out to the communal halls is cold too, but not in the way Legolas seeks. Gimli must lead the way through the warren, through the stale winter air that lingers underground, and it is perplexing, that Legolas is as close to the earth as one can possibly be, and yet it feels like a memory of living things, a place where people sleep for an endless time. Certainly every dwarf in Erebor is still asleep, because they pass noone as they make their way left and right and left again and around and out into the Great Hall. But not to use its huge, grand doors. They exit through a modest side entrance, one unfit for kings or diplomats from foreign lands, but to the Prince of the Greenwood passing through it is as good as being properly heralded, announced with full fanfare as he steps out into the morning air. 

Erebor, for all of Legolas’ reservations, boasts a spectacular view. Up here, Legolas can see for endless miles, all the way to his own beloved home. The treeline in the distance is still brown, dormant. Sharp fingers reach for the still-gray sky, huddled in clusters to keep warm even as they seek the sun with timid hope. It is a modest sight –– bleak, to some, Legolas is sure. He can feel it so acutely out here, though, the vibrating _almost_ of sleeping saplings and buds. 

A moan of yearning almost pushes itself unbidden from his throat as that fresh, living chill greets him, kisses his face with velvet breaths of wind the same way he kissed Gimli this morning.

The beauty seems to be lost on Gimli, who is nodding a greeting to the guards on duty (the first waking people they have encountered all morning) and then mumbling to himself about ducts. He wants so badly to shape Aglarond into the pinnacle of dwarven ingenuity, wants to give generations of his people a home grander than any on earth, and Legolas often catches him squinting up at the vaulted ceilings of Erebor or the plumbing in the guest suites of Minas Tirith with shrewd determination to do better.

“– wonder if Dorbin will meet with me before we leave, I would like to ask him ––” Gimli stops himself when he misinterprets Legolas’ open admiring of the furrow in his brow. “Sorry, I know. I am officially not working while we are here. Where would you like to run and dance, then?”

He loops his arm through Legolas’ as best he can with their height difference, and together they walk along the path leading down from the gate. The stones are slick, but Gimli’s step is sure. Legolas rests his opposite hand atop Gimli’s hold on him, brushing his knuckles with the pad of his thumb.

“This is perfect,” Legolas says, and he means it. His heart aches with the want of spring, with affection for the steady warmth of Gimli beside him. He feels nearly giddy to be in this unlikely moment, where he is able to wander Erebor freely, and yet the true privilege is to be doing it with Gimli. It is not hyperbole; he does want to run. He does want to dance –– dance around his beautiful husband like an untrained Aglarondian rescue pup, nipping at his heels in the morning air, urging Gimli to play with him because the day is theirs, their long years are theirs.

His heart bursts with this verve, and finally he cannot help but let it overcome him as they make their way to the soggy training grounds.

“Urgh, all this mud,” Gimli tuts, likely thinking about his own hours once spent here.

He looks so disapproving that Legolas cannot help himself. He detaches himself from Gimli with a tug at his mustache and a jab to the ticklish place beneath his ribs, flitting off when Gimli squawks and complains that his hands are cold.

 _Chase me_ , Legolas does not say; he is too breathless, his cheeks are too full with holding his smile, and something in the spark between them has caught in Gimli now too. They gallumph out into the field, Legolas keeping just out of Gimli’s reach as Gimli swats his large paws into empty air.

“My mother will kill you,” Gimli says of the state their clothes are already in.

“Well, we’re already here!” Legolas counters.

They circle each other, darting around heedless of the mess their shoes are collecting, laughing at the push and the pull of them.

Legolas finds himself crouching into a hand-to-hand sparring stance, and Gimli is poised, still. The dwarf is so thick and strong and dangerous looking as he levels his gaze and accepts Legolas’ challenge, then darts in with a speed that his body so often belies. Legolas shudders pleasantly at the scrape of Gimli’s calloused fingers against his torso, twists in his grasp, uses his height to free himself from Gimli’s arms as soon as they circle around him. He turns Gimli’s own move against him, pivots to press himself against Gimli’s back to pin his arms, searing his own skin with the feel of the full length of his torso against Gimli’s solid heat. He can feel the tingle of his body starting to awaken at the contact, his blood flowing southwards in interest. He presses his growing hardness into the small of Gimli’s back, buries his nose in the hair behind the round ear.

He does not have long to enjoy himself–– Gimli’s strength and Legolas’ dalliance forces him out of Gimli’s hold, and in a practiced motion the dwarf uses his own height against Legolas this time, dropping a shoulder and rolling the slender elf overtop. Legolas lands on his feet and rights himself easily with a squelchy thud in front of Gimli. He could crow.

Gimli tries again to get the elf into a lock, and Legolas yelps delightedly into the now-dawn. The sound echoes against the high walls around the grounds, casting the illusion that they have an audience even as they are still the only two souls in this wonderful world.

Legolas cannot stretch out their play any longer, not on a day like today. He allows Gimli the advantage only to turn the tables once again, and while Gimli cannot be matched for strength, Legolas is of course longer and more flexible by far. He manages to hook a foot around Gimli at the knees, yanking the dwarf off balance so he tumbles backwards, arse-first into the mud.

“Unfair fight! Goading a dwarf first thing in the morning!” Gimli accuses without any heat. His cheeks are tinged pink with their brief excursion, his ample chest rising and falling beneath his now-muddy tunic.

Legolas Grins. “You’ve had the kafe this morning, my lord, not me.”

There was once a time where he thought he’d take pleasure in seeing the dwarf like this, laid out on the filthy ground beneath him… and he does; but he never could have guessed at the way it would overheat his body. 

“Ah, but you’ve had ––” Gimli pants, “I don’t rightly know –– the turn of the season’s scrambled your head!” He offers a thick hand for Legolas to hoist him up, but Legolas falls to his knees in front of him instead. 

“You’re right, it has,” Legolas says. The way the dirty rain water seeps into the fabric and clings to his skin makes him feel wild, makes him feel like taking a risk.

Gimli is confused, but then the recognition hits him when Legolas leans forward, gliding his slender palms up the inside of Gimli’s splayed thighs. His warm eyes burn with both interest and warning, and Legolas’ hands slide up, up, up, until the heel of his palm finally presses the tent of Gimli’s trousers. They gasp together at the thickness there, then Legolas brazenly delves in beneath the waistband.

“Legolas!” Gimli hisses, head snapping around wildly to take stock of their surroundings, “Not here, where anyone could see!”

They are both sat in the middle of the training field, two tiny figures engulfed by the empty stadium. They have time yet, though not much. A breeze catches Legolas’ hair, tugs at the weight of his braid.

“Here,” Legolas says. “Please, Gimli. It has to be here.”

Legolas removes only Gimli’s length from the confines of his clothes. Another soft gasp. Legolas cannot be sure which of them uttered it, so taken is he by the sight before him, his husband exposed and erect and wanting him despite the fact that this is a public space. 

Though the vee of Gimli’s legs does not smell like budding blooms, the musk there makes him just as dizzy, the same overwhelming thrum of life that is impossible for the elf to resist. He dips his head and bows his belly into the mud, and Gimli protests no further.

Legolas laps at the blunt head for a moment, then pulls Gimli’s cock into his mouth all the way. He relishes the stretch of his lips around the iron-like heat. It is as much a pleasure to himself to have Gimli like this; He delights in the act of service, loves to give himself for Gimli’s sole benefit, taking only the soft panting that falls from Gimli’s lips to treasure like a precious gift. 

Mirth bubbles up inside Legolas when he realizes Gimli is attempting to soften even these quiet groans, worried for the echo of the empty place. Gimli is not normally loud when they are intimate, more likely instead to utter soft grunts and whispered endearments, and the attempt to stifle his already measured breathing makes the whole encounter feel that much more illicit. Legolas finds it thrilling, would feel no shame whatsoever if some early riser were to enter the grounds or walk the promenade only to stumble across an elf of the Greenwood loving Gloin’s son so well; they would be as honorable a witness to their union as the day of their dwarf wedding in Aglarond.

He bobs his head up and down, squeezing Gimli’s thighs tightly with each pulse he feels in his own cock. They are both straining: Legolas in his own too-tight trousers, Gimli as he now leans back on his hands, canting his hips up to meet the thrusts of Legolas’ tongue. 

Legolas has managed to keep one of his own hands clean of mud, and with it he moves to grip the base of Gimli’s cock firmly. It pumps up and down in the slick with quick purpose, counter to the pace his mouth is keeping. In defiant response to Gimli’s attempts to be quiet, Legolas allows his loud slurping sounds to carry, and the sound goads Gimli’s breaths into coming faster and faster, rapidly approaching that final moment like the creeping morning sun. The scent of earth is all around them. 

“Legolas,” Gimli rasps.

Legolas pulls up and off with a pop, meeting Gimli’s eyes. He licks his lips like he’s savouring a meal, which makes Gimli’s breath hitch. _Hurry_ , Gimli’s expression seems to say, so Legolas obeys. He sinks back down onto Gimli with their gazes still locked, hollows his cheeks and sucks tight. Gimli shudders, and a tangy taste bursts into Legolas’ mouth.

He motions to one of Gimli’s muddy hands, guides it to his head despite Gimli’s clear hesitation to dirty his hair. It is alright, Legolas thinks, he loves to be marked. His eyes flutter closed once more, and Gimli faithfully grips his hair the way he likes, pulling Legolas’ head to bob between his legs. 

A crow croaks overhead; the sky has more and more color by the second.

The mud in Legola’s hair now only adds to the wet mess of escaped saliva and precum that is his face, and the easy slide of Gimli’s cock down his throat is so delicious that he moans deep and low around it. He can barely breathe but he will stop for nothing, deeply focused on the scratch of wiry hair at the corners of his mouth and he’s tipping over, hips snapping down into the wet earth and body spasming, his moaning helpless and frantic as he climaxes in his own clothes. The vibration makes Gimli push faster, faster, makes Legolas suck tighter, and suddenly Legolas feels him shaking apart too, feels the hot ropes coating his throat as he greedily swallows everything he is given, here on his belly in the mud.

He lets Gimli ride out his climax at his own pace, thrusting slowly until their breathing tapers off at last. Finally, Gimli pulls himself out, and even with how much Legolas has swallowed, a stream of spit and pearly white escapes with it, dripping down onto the earth beneath them.

Legolas pushes himself up and back to sit on his heels, acutely aware at how thoroughly soaked he is. He still feels euphoric, but the urgency has ebbed, and when he touches a fingertip to his sloppy, swollen mouth he wonders with at least some semblance of sobriety if maybe he did act a bit impulsively.

“Oh – here,” Gimli says, reaching forward, cock still hanging out of his trousers. He swipes a thumb over Legolas’ chin, having apparently forgotten about the soil that he then smears into the skin as a result. Legolas feels the cool wet earth on his face, sees Gimli’s eyes widen in realization of his error. Then he’s laughing, and laughing, and laughing like the morning that’s officially upon them, like the sun beginning to warm the mountain, and Legolas is too in love not to join in. 

He leans in, kisses Gimli with his whole self, every ounce of his breath, and together they fall back into the mud with a plop.

♦︎

“My goodness!” Gimli’s mother gasps at the sight of them when they return. Her chair scrapes against the flagstone as she suddenly stands, “Wait–– no, no, don’t come this way, you’ll drip on my rugs, come here through the kitchen. What under stone have you two been _doing_?”

Legolas does have enough grace to at least be chastised for tracking such a mess into her home. “It, er –– rained last night.” 

“Aye,” Gimli says, “But spring is finally here.”


End file.
